Thriftmor was a markedly less composed figure than the unruffled diplomat she remembered. His hair was tousled from what Lizanne judged to be an unsettled sleep and his somewhat sagging, red-eyed visage told of a man beset by unaccustomed worries. “So, you’re alive,” were his only words as Lizanne was conveyed to the ship’s ward-room.
“And good evening to you, Director,” she replied, casting her gaze around the room to ensure they were alone.
“I find I have little appetite for petty niceties these days,” Thriftmor replied. He went to the drinks cabinet in the corner and poured a generous measure of brandy into two glasses. “Ice?” he enquired.
“No thank you.”
Thriftmor carried the glasses to the ward-room table and sat down, Lizanne moving to join him. The brandy was an excellent vintage and the finest liquor she had tasted for some time, fine enough for her to resist the impulse to drink it all at once. Director Thriftmor was not so restrained, gulping down the entire contents of the glass before asking a hoarse question, “Your mission?”
“Still progressing. I require your assistance to ensure its success.”
“Assistance?” Thriftmor gave a humourless smile and rose to pour himself some more brandy. “What possible assistance could I provide? I assume you have some awareness of our current situation?”
“Yes. You sit aboard the most powerful warship in the western hemisphere doing precisely nothing whilst the empire that has long been our enemy crumbles to pieces.”
“The Regency Council has formally ordered this ship not to leave the harbour. If we attempt to do so Countess Sefka has assured me hostilities will resume immediately.”
“War with the Syndicate is the last thing she wants just now. Her plate being somewhat overflowing.”
“It is Syndicate policy not to interfere in Corvantine internal disputes.”
“Yes. Curious then that I have spent much of my career doing just that. For decades the entire corporate world has been hoping for the day this empire faces its ultimate collapse. Now it’s finally here, do you really intend to do nothing?”
“We have an agreed treaty with the late Emperor. Countess Sefka has given assurances it will be ratified once the current criminal insurgency is dealt with.”
“Why wait?” Lizanne took an oilskin-covered packet from her pocket and tossed it onto the table.
Thriftmor lingered at the drinks cabinet, regarding the packet with grave suspicion as he polished off another full glass of brandy. “And what is that?” he asked, reaching once again for the bottle.
“A Mutual Assistance Agreement between the Corvantine Republic and the Ironship Syndicate, signed by all members of the Interim Governing Council. They will consider the agreement fully valid once your signature is added.”
Thriftmor gave a short, high-pitched laugh as he poured more brandy. “You expect me to formally and publicly support this rebellion on my own initiative?”
“Yes. And having done so, you will order the captain of the Profitable Venture to place his Blood-blessed under my authority and stand ready to fire upon the Imperial Sanctum at a time of my choosing.”
He gaped at her, brandy trickling from the upended bottle, spattering onto the floor as it missed his glass by a wide margin. “You are patently quite insane,” he said.
“If so, you are alone in a room with a Blood-blessed agent of the Exceptional Initiatives Division who also happens to be mad.” She placed her left arm on the table, the sleeve of her shirt rolled up to reveal the Spider, holding his gaze. “Just sign the document, Director,” she said with a bland smile. “Once you’ve introduced me to the captain I’ll let you go back to bed.”
? ? ?
The Profitable Venture had two thermoplasmic engines, each requiring its own Blood-blessed to operate. Lizanne met the pair of them in the captain’s cabin, the man himself having gone to oversee his ship’s surreptitious transition to battle stations. At first Lizanne took the two Blood-blessed for brother and sister, so similar were they in colouring, both with striking red hair and pale freckled skin. They also both had similarly narrow noses and eyes of dark green, so it was a surprise when the male Blood-blessed made the introductions, “Zakaeus Griffan. This is my wife Sofiya.”
“Sir, madam,” she greeted them both. “The captain has advised you of your change in circumstances, I trust?”
The two of them exchanged an uneasy glance. “We are to follow your instructions,” Mrs. Griffan said in a cautious tone.
“You are indeed.” Lizanne gestured at the captain’s desk where a pair of revolvers had been placed along with thirty rounds of ammunition. “Please arm yourselves. Product will be provided once we reach our objective.”
Neither of them moved, eyes tracking from the guns to Lizanne. “I . . .” Zakaeus Griffan faltered, coughed and tried again. “I didn’t catch your name, madam?”
“I didn’t give it.”
“Even so.” The man licked dry lips, forcing himself to meet her eye with a stern resolve. “Never having met you before, my wife and I cannot simply . . .”
“Standard Ironship Maritime Contract Number Seventy-four,” Lizanne cut in. “Pertaining to the employment of registered Blood-blessed aboard Protectorate Vessels. Clause Ten, sub-clause Twelve-B: All contracted Blood-blessed shall consider themselves subject to the orders of any Exceptional Initiatives agent who identifies themselves to the ship’s commanding officer. Failure to comply will be considered a breach of contract and result in forfeiture of all payments set out in this agreement, formal removal from the Register and a period of no less than ten years in an Ironship custodial facility.”
She forced down the spark of pity in her breast as she watched them clasp hands, Mrs. Griffan’s features tensing with the onset of tears. “I find myself with recent experience of prison life,” Lizanne told them, maintaining a stern tone. “I assure you it is far from pleasant.”
Zakaeus squeezed his wife’s hand, meeting Lizanne’s steady gaze with one of his own. “I will serve in my wife’s stead . . .”
“Unacceptable. I require both of you.” Lizanne moved to the desk, retrieving the revolvers and pushing them into the Griffans’ arms. “I’ll allow you five minutes of privacy,” she said, moving to the door. “After which I shall expect your presence on the fore-deck.”
? ? ?
They slipped ashore in the morning, disguised as crew members on the small launch the Profitable was permitted to send to the docks for supplies. Sofiya Griffan fidgeted continually as the launch neared the wharf, her face even paler beneath the peak of the cap under which her red locks had been concealed. Watching her Lizanne wondered if it might have been better to accede to her husband’s request. For all their gifts, Blood-blessed were people like any other and fortitude was a far from universal trait.
“Stop that!” Lizanne said in a harsh whisper, reaching out to grip the woman’s forearm as her hands began to tremble.
“I can’t . . .” Sofiya hissed back. “I can’t fight! I don’t know how!”
“I do not require you to fight,” Lizanne returned, casting a cautious glance at the Corvantine marines on the wharf.